Liar Liar

Pink nail polish. A man’s tie. A white shirt that I believe is mine.

Home. I am home. I step farther into the room, pushing my hands in my pockets as I will my heart to still. She’s here. She’s okay. She’s my home, and no matter what, she always will be.

‘Have you been looking for me?’

Only my whole life, I almost answer because how do you look for something you didn’t realise you needed. But I do need her. I’ve needed her all along.

‘What have we got here?’ I make a path to the ottoman as she points her toes, my gaze crawling from there up the length of her toned legs. In one hand, she holds a crystal tumbler by the rim, something tawny contained, as her other draws soft circles against the silky pile of the chair arm.

‘I bought you a present. From Glenna,’ she adds, in response to my slight frown. ‘Only you wouldn’t know who Glenna Goodman is.’ Her eyes are beguiling, even as she raises her brows.

‘Ah, the dressmaker.’

‘Not even close,’ she says with a tiny laugh. ‘I’m not sure a dressmaker would make one of these.’ She toys with the thin end of the tie she’s wearing looped casually around her neck. The outer side lies down the length of her torso, pointing like an arrow to the heaven between her legs.

‘And what is that?’ My tone is pondering as I bring my hand to my chin. ‘Do you think someone needs direction? Is it perhaps a subtle hint?’

‘It’s a gift.’ She arches a little in the chair, the cotton of my shirt exposing the bud of her nipple. She is a gift, from the way her dark hair gleams in the candlelight and the way it licks at her skin. Her gift is in the heat of her gaze and the way she lowers her lashes as though to conceal it.

‘What are you doing?’ There’s a tremble in her voice as I wrap my hand around the back of her knee, desire, not nervousness, I decide, as I take a seat on the ottoman between her legs.

‘I’m following directions,’ I murmur, pressing my mouth to the inside of her knee, keeping it there with a deep inhale. I know the scent of her intimately now, like a favourite perfume, the taste of her beckoning. Her sharp gasp twists at my insides as I reach out and drag my finger down the red silken path, her held breath becoming a sigh as I lift her knee and hook it over the arm of the chair, spreading her for my gaze. Pink, and lush, and ripe. I take the glass from her hand and bring it to my lips. Cognac, the good stuff.

‘I was supposed to be doing something nice for you.’

I watch her over the rim of the glass. Rose with the soft skin and the raw kind of beauty. Only she would think I deserve good things.

‘Oh, Rose, I do love you. But nice is the least of the things I’m about to do to you.’

* * *

‘Here.’ Rhett drops a large envelope to my desk, sinking into the chair on the opposite side. I don’t normally work from the chateau, but when Rhett called to say he had a package to drop off, I decided speaking with him in away from prying eyes would be preferable.

‘What is it?’ I narrow my gaze at him, not entirely sure why I’m asking as a fist tightens my innards.

‘The information from the PI. It came by courier this afternoon.’

Pulling open a drawer in my desk, I drop it to the darkness it deserves. ‘I assume you haven’t opened it.’

His brows pull down. ‘What do you think? You asked me not to, so I didn’t. Even though I think you’re being a colossal arsehole in not opening them yourself.’

‘For the final time, not that I have to explain myself to you, but Rose had nothing to do with what happened back in March, and whatever she was to Emile, I’ve already decided I don’t want to know.’ She isn’t my sister, and whatever fucked-up thing he thinks she’s guilty of, he’s wrong. I know it. And I have plans for the content of this envelope. At some point, Rose will need to know the truth. Or at least some of it.

‘There’s a story behind this, and you know there is. You don’t leave that kind of money to some woman you’ve never met. Someone you’ve no connection to. But I was thinking.’ He sits suddenly forward in the chair, his fingers at his darkly stubbled chin. ‘Could she be some other debt. Maybe that fucker Ben’s half-sister. Someone Emile might’ve felt honour bound to look after?’

‘Emile had no honour,’ I reply, slamming the drawer shut. ‘And whatever is in that envelope is of no interest to me.’ At this moment, at least. All the same, I make a mental note to take it into the office to be locked in the safe with the rest of the investigator’s work.